After a while, Anna said, “You didn’t go to your mother’s funeral, either, did you?”
“No. And I’m afraid, for us... for all our sorrow right now... this will have to do.”
Her hand slipped from his, and she knelt at her grandmother’s gravestone and touched the carved name there. Looking up at him, she said, “O’Sullivan... Is that who I am, really, Daddy? Annie O’Sullivan?”
He reached out to her, helped her back up, slipped an arm around her shoulder, and said, “No, sweetheart. You’re Anna Grace.”
She sucked in a breath. “I am, aren’t I? I am.”
“Lovely name. For my lovely girl.”
She hugged him, and they made their way out of the cemetery.
In twenty minutes, they were back on Interstate 80. A quick supper at a truck stop would mark their last meal on the road.
By mid evening they would be in Chicago.
Twelve
At the turn of the century, Oak Park had been dubbed Saints’ Rest, due to its many churches, and perhaps because the idyllic, largely white village was so quiet, and quietly affluent.
But on this June night, Chicago’s nearest neighbor to the west suffered under a hellish humidity, heat lightning streaking the sky, wind rustling the leaves of the suburb’s many sizable trees in an unsettling, ceaseless whisper.
Just before ten, walking easily up Lexington Street, Michael — in a black sport coat over black Banlon with black slacks and matching loafers and socks — might have been a priest but for the lack of white collar. Despite the thick-aired swelter, and the ominous atmosphere, the neighborhood seemed peaceful; a dog barked, crickets chirped, window air conditioners thrummed. Houses here dated to the 1920s, substantial bungalows blessed with generous yards, while countless shade trees — mostly namesake oaks — stood sentry.
He and Anna had arrived in Oak Park less than two hours ago. This represented something of a homecoming, as the Satarianos had called the village home until about ten years ago. But Anna had just been in first grade, and her memories were hazy, while Michael had maintained no friendships here. No real risk being seen.
Though the suburb boasted a few gangster residents, it wasn’t nearly as dangerous for them as that nearby Outfit enclave, River Forest (where Tony Accardo lived, when he wasn’t in Palm Springs). The downtown might have been a theme-park replication of a typical quaint shopping district of the 1950s, before shopping-mall casualties. At the south edge, they sought out the Oak Arms, a four-story tan-brick residential hotel whose specialty was being nondescript.
In a featureless lobby, Michael paid the desk clerk seventy-five dollars and eighty-five cents, cash — the weekly rate — for a “suite” on the second floor. What father and daughter got was a small apartment consisting of a bedroom, living room with “sleeper” couch, and a kitchenette — everything brown, tan, or dark green, and not because any long-ago decorator had been thinking “earth tones.” They were on the alley, which was fine with Michael, the fire escape access next door, sharing space with Coke- and candy-vending machines.
They sat on the uncomfortable nubby couch, pregnant with fold-out bed; he was in a light blue sport shirt and tan chinos, she in an orange tank top and brown bell-bottom jeans — what they’d worn driving today. The glow of a streetlight bounced off a brick wall in the alley and filtered in through a gauzy secondary layer of curtain; a small lamp on an end table provided the only other illumination, a parchment-style shade creating a yellow cast.
He told her, “I think you should get some rest — maybe take a couple of Mom’s sedatives again.”
She eyed him with frank suspicion. “Why? I’m not having any trouble sleeping, anymore.”
“It’s just... tomorrow’s a big day.”
“What’s big about it?”
He shrugged a little; they were eyeing each other sideways. “Tomorrow’s when we’re taking care of the problem.”
“The ‘problem.’ That man, you mean... Giancana. That problem.”
He sucked in air, nodded, let it out.
“I thought you respected me,” she said, chin crinkling.
“I do, sweetheart.”
“Then don’t yank on my ying yang.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t lie to me. You wanna dope me up, like you did in Palm Springs, so you can go play Charles Bronson again! Well, I won’t put up with it — I’m part of this, too, you know.”
He patted the air with a palm. “Baby — really. It’s better I do this alone.”
She crossed her arms; her jaw was set. “No fucking way.”
“I can’t involve you in this — if we got caught, or, or...”
“Killed?” Her eyebrows hiked. “What if I was Mike? What about that... Daddy?”
“I, uh... don’t know what you mean, honey.”
She swung around, and sat on her legs Indian-style, so she could face him, confrontationally. “If it was Mike, with Mom murdered, you’d hand him a goddamn gun and say, ‘Come on, son.’ Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Tell me I’m not right!”
“You’re not right.”
“You’re lying.”
And he was.
Then he said, “Baby, this is no time for some kind of... what, feminist stand. I want you to stay here, right here, while—”
“You want to knock me out with sedatives, I-am-woman-hear-me-snore, while you go off and maybe get killed, maybe because you didn’t have, what, backup when you needed it.”
He was shaking his head. “Don’t be absurd.”
She played patty cake with the air. “Wait a minute, wait a minute — aren’t I talking to the eleven-year-old baby-face bank robber? Wanted in six or seven states?”
“...That’s beside the point.”
“Hell it is! It’s right to the point — your father took you along, made you his partner, trusted you to drive the damn getaway car. Me? I’m supposed to take my medicine like a good little girl and zonk out, and maybe wake up an orphan. No way. No fucking way, Daddy.”
He just looked at her — she seemed so young and yet much older than when this trip had started. Did he have any right to leave her behind? Giancana was responsible for her mother’s death — and her husband’s death — and had created the utter shambles that was now both their lives...
Of course he had the right: he was her father. When Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., had gone for the final showdown with Connor Looney, Michael O‘Sullivan, Jr., had been left behind in a residential hotel not unlike this one, in Prophet’s Town, Illinois... What had it been called? Could it have been... the Paradise Hotel?
And Papa had left him a letter, like the one he had ready to leave Anna, and... how had he felt about it? Frightened, alone, and a little betrayed. He’d promised his father he would not open that envelope, and he had stared at it long and hard, wondering what was inside, terrified of what was written in there, and that his father would never return.
What an awful, endless night that had been...
“All right,” he said. “You can drive.”
“All right!” she said, and swung a tiny fist. “And I’ll have my gun along? I’ll be armed and dangerous, won’t I?”
“Bet your life,” he said.
But he left his eighteen-year-old getaway girl in the Caddy, parked on Lexington, and walked a block before turning right and walking another three to Wenonah Avenue, where he turned right again. Two blocks later he could see the house on the corner of Wenonah and Fillmore, a distinctive red-tile-roofed yellow-brick bungalow, one-and-a-half stories with arched windows — solid, spacious, unassuming, perfect digs for the gangster who wants comfort without calling undue attention to himself.